


(de)ceased

by dollcewrites



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollcewrites/pseuds/dollcewrites
Summary: Like a blank space between parentheses, they existed and ceased simultaneously.





	(de)ceased

They slept together sometimes.

 

It happened when they were holed up like caged rats in their tin bunker, firearms propped against the wall or on the metal counter, an arm’s reach from the fold out beds where they did anything but sleep. The beds were ambulance style, the bunker was windowless, only artificial light weakly bleaching them.

She would light a cigarette when they got back—her, without a spot or spray of blood, him, typically the opposite. He didn’t know why she smoked; with a heart rate as slow as hers, flutterings couldn’t be an issue. The nicotine was redundant. 

Old habits die hard, he supposed.

After, she’d sit and clean her gun. Not that the metal was unclean, but she routinely disassembled the parts and inspected them, before reassembling it all and leaning it carefully against the wall. If there was anything that Widow touched lovingly, it was her gun.

 

He would shower.

 

Hot water would wash away the blood while his body carefully scarred over and threaded up the tissue of any lasting wounds. It would seem like the water was mending his flesh, if not for the charred smoke that rose from the sealing sinew. The shower cubicle smelled metallic. Steel and blood, both underpinned by the iron component. The soap was too cheap to mask it, unfragrant and utilitarian.

He’d stopped wearing his mask around her a long time ago, but he redressed himself in bare combat gear; pants, boots, and a turtleneck shirt. She wore the same.

Downtime was frequent and clipped. Too short to be meaningful, long enough to let restlessness eat you away.

At first they quelled the boredom with planning. Where next, what next, they revised their already meticulous plans. 

And then talking about the kill; they’d discuss their favourite methods. They’d share stories and talk strategy. Widow seemed most engaged when he described in detail. 

After talking came drinking. They went hand in hand. 

And after the planning, talking, drinking and smoking—then it became something else.

 

It was like that now—half a bottle of whiskey had been flicked down their throats via cut shot glasses, and the air was full of smoke, and they weren’t satisfied.    
  
They never kissed. Dead lips on dead lips seemed more redundant than her smoking habit.  
  
At least their flesh was alive enough to make fucking each other pleasurable.   
  
(Sometimes he felt even the slightest bit more alive in those moments.)

  
  
✧ ✧ ✧  
  
  


He knew, of course, that she used to be Amélie Lacroix. No Talon personnel, not Moira, not anyone, had said her name—she had been  _ Widowmaker,  _ and only that, since their first assignment, first meeting, but. He’d known right away, and before. He recognised her face, her voice, her mannerisms, everything about her. It was what she said and did that was different. The expressions that Widow wore—or lack thereof—were not Amélie.

It was like seeing a corpse reanimated.

He supposed that wasn’t far off. Amélie Lacroix had died in a Talon facility, and Widowmaker was walking around, pretending to be alive, using her body and face.

Ironic really, that they ended up together. Not quite dead, not quite alive. Like a blank space between parentheses, they existed and ceased simultaneously.

 

She still drank her favourite label of red wine, when she could get it; otherwise they’d share cheap liquor. 

She still held her cigarettes the same way. Balanced between the pointer and the middle finger, thumbnail ready to tap ash away, wrist elegantly relaxed even as she drew the filter to brush her lips. Exactly, identically how Amélie would smoke. 

But Amélie and Widowmaker were two different people.  
  


She was so very very cold in his arms.


End file.
